The Word Eater
by ImiTation
Summary: I have followed Yassen Gregorovich's story from the highs to the lows. I have shared in his triumphs. I have wept with his words. And now, I give you his story. The Word Eater. When Death tells a story, you really have to listen. Rating for language.
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing. I would claim otherwise but, well, I'd have to run for the embassy. This work of fanfiction is heavily inspired by The Book Thief. I mean it. Heavily. If you have a problem with that, don't read the story. You don't have to read The Book Thief to get it. Though if you haven't already, you should. I really do stress the point though. A lot of stuff borrowed from The Book Thief. Not the plot though. That's mine.**

**Also, if you don't like Yassen, there's nothing here for you. Nothing. I mean it.**

**So, in conclusion, just enjoy and stuff, okay? Please drop me a review too 'cause I'm new to this whole fanfiction thing. Would like to hear what you think. **

**Just, about the whole Book Thief thing. Don't be put off by it. I have been heavy handed. I've taken sections and stripped them down, tinkered with them, then put them back together for this story. If this bothers you, just tell me I'm an ass, flame me to kingdom come and I'll delete it.**

**DISCLAIMER: The Alex Rider Series and all relevant characters are property of Anthony Horowitz. The Book Thief is property of Markus Zusak. Not mine. You hear that guys? Do not belong to me.**

Silence is the loudest noise of all. Silence deafens and consumes. It is an ever hungry creature, devouring all. It is a monster. Words are the swords that pierce and wound. And we find, too late, that the monster is something that dwells within.

You can make of this what you will.

It is not fact. It is not false. It simply is.

"Where did you find them?"

Words invaded the silence. They were spoken gently. Awkwardly. They had sat in their speaker's mouth all night. They had driven many miles, dragged out of their bed by a phone call. Now they sat clumsily at their speaker's feet. Silence eyed them curiously.

Not the start you expected? Where are my manners? A beginning is what we need. A real one. An introduction.

You will know me already. I am a part of every life. Of every culture. Of the rich tapestry, entwined with darkness, that is your history.

But not just yours. I belong to every one. And you'll have to share me.

I'm sure that, at some stage, I've taken someone you know and love into my arms. Well, their soul anyway. And someday, maybe soon, it will be you I've come for.

But please, don't take it personally. I'm death. It's just my job.

You could say that Yassen Gregorovich and I saw a lot of each other over the years. You would be correct. I saw Yassen a total of five times. I know what you're thinking. 'Only five times?' Yes, Yassen did keep me rather busy with his job. But he was so good at it, I never saw him, even once, killing someone. I simply cleared up the messes he left behind. We were like workers on opposite shifts. But still, I remember each encounter very clearly.

The first was black.

The night sky had imploded on itself. All the stars had disappeared into the murky darkness. I wandered slowly into the dim little bedroom. The candle spluttered violently. I eased the soul from her body and flung it over my shoulder. I remember thinking how beautiful she was.

A tragic waste.

You humans are good at tragedy. Despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, you are very odd creatures. Full of wants and needs and thoughts and dreams. Everytime I manage to label you, someone comes along and confounds my worst expectations.

I was about to leave, but I turned back at the door. I was compelled. I turned my gaze on the one pathetic survivor. It was a boy.

I know what you're thinking to yourself. Yassen Gregorovich as a child. Yes, it was. I know what you're thinking now. Spawn of Satan and so on. But no. I didn't learn that it was Yassen until much later. Because he was behaving most un-Yasssen-like.

**The Definition Of Un-Yassen-Like:**

_Sobbing into her hair with one hand stroking her cheek._

He was a sliver of a boy when I saw him. A filthy mess of white blond hair. A little parcel wrapped in brown paper was at his feet. He clung to a teddy bear with no eyes.

Everything about him spelt undernourished. Legs like wire hangars. Arms with very pointy elbows. Fingers like chicken bones. Snot and tears ran down his face and mixed. I had no idea I would see more of the boy.

In Yassen's own words _'This was my first taste of death. It tasted empty and rubbery. Like a balloon. Like the park after the carnival is over'_.

The second was green.

Gas shrouded the air. A curtain of poison was drawn around the small port. I threw their souls over my shoulder. I piled them on my back. I pulled the scientists along in my hands. They were dragged along the ground.

I don't like scientists. And these ones were worse than most.

That was when I made a mistake.

I rushed. I arrived too early. The man and woman were still alive. Just barely. Their minds were slowing, no longer racing with fear. The colours they saw dulled. The world was dark for them. Again I noticed. Once again I was compelled.

A boy was hunched in the corner. He wore an over-sized gas mask that covered his face from his eyes down. Tufty blond hair flopped messily on top of his head. It was no longer as pale a brand of blond. No longer white.

His eyes were very serious. So serious I did a double take.

He was crying again.

But not the snotty weeping he'd done as a child. Tears trickled silently down his face and dripped off his chin. He was so very quiet. So very still.

He still had that underfed look, even if he was marginally cleaner. But still, he looked like a stick man. A hungry stick man with tooth pick arms and legs. I felt a pang of sadness. You see? Even I feel sadness for a kid who has nothing. No-one.

He was wearing slightly better clothes than last time. An old, but neatly stitched, shirt and navy, nicely patched trousers. They were the smallest bit on the large side but I don't think he cared. A small girl sheltered under one arm.

I picked up the man's soul. And the woman's. I was waiting for the girl.

He stroked her ash blond hair and whispered nonsense to her. He spoke of apple trees and double beds. Horses and Sister Egorov and painting. Puppies and sheep skin rugs. Hot water and snowmen and ice skating and kisses. He told her she would be fine.

He was lying.

I knew it.

She knew it.

Deep down he knew it as well.

I listened closely then. And in the room that smelt faintly of damp, a room half lit by moonshine strolling through the broken window, I observed. They spoke softly to each other. I strained my ears but could not hear. Many years later, I learned what was said.

**One Last Conversation Before Death:**

_"I'm going to die Yassen, amn't I?"_

_"No. You won't. I won't let death take you"_

_"He's here. I can see him. I can smell him. He took mama and papa. I'll tell him to leave you alone"_

_"I can't lose you Yeva. We lost her. Now we've lost Olga and Pavel. I can't lose you. Not now"_

_"What was the song mama used to sing for us, Yassen?"_

_"I'm so scared Yeva. I- You can't die"_

_"How did it go? Sing it for me"_

_His voice cracks and he sobs quietly. Both the girl and I waited with bated breath to hear thie song. I have done it again. I've become caught up in the story of Yassen. It was the only part of the conversation I heard at that stage. The boy confessing his fear. The girl asking for a song._

_"I can't. I don't remember. I don't remember"._

_Slowly the girl's soul slips from her body. I scoop her into my arms. A forgotten tune is caught in my mind._

Again my knowledge of the situation was fractured. I had no idea she was blind. I learned that too, many years later, through Yassen's words. It may be a small comfort to you. She loved him as much as any younger sister could. He did not die unloved.

The third time was blue.

As I descended down into the winding city streets, I paused for a moment. The Moskva river was winding its way steadily along below me. I don't know if you've seen it before. It's grey. And filthy. What else is there to tell?

I know that by this stage, you have heard many of my mistakes. Many of them. You must think I'm rather careless. But now I have a truth for you. I was intriqued by Yassen Gregorovich. Very much so. It's in my nature to root for the underdog. And in a struggle between the world and a fourteen year old boy, it's clear who the underdog is.

Anytime I was called to Russia, I raced. I went that little bit faster. Because I was sure a boy like Yassen would be surrounded by death. I was sure of it. Sooner or later he would surface. It did not take too long.

I drifted down to the river like a leaf caught in the breeze. A group of boys stood by the river.

I watched with interest, allowing myself to plug into the situation. Letting myself forget the fact that one of these boys would die soon. I just stood and watched.

From what I could gather, they were arguing about something. A dare. A prank. One of those things teenage boys find an amusing pass time. I scanned each face hungrily for a boy with pale blue, serious eyes. And yes. Right there. Once again, Yassen Gregorovich was before my very eyes.

He was taller now. A beanpole of a boy, lean and borderline skinny. But a lot stronger looking than some of the other boys there. And better kept. His hair was shaggy and stuck up untidily like twigs now. His skin was still as pale as ever. But his eyes. If they'd started off as serious, they had only grown more so over the years. Even at the age of fifteen he had that cold air. I think the other boys recognized he had something none of them had.

It was an air of something. Maybe it was an omen about his future. A prediction, perhaps.

I moved back slightly, to take in the entire scene. I played a little game. I tried to guess who it would be. I could feel the tension raise. And then, all of a sudden, a fight broke out. One of the boys swung for another boy. The boy under attack was a head taller than Yassen. He fought back as best he could. But the other boy was stronger. More skillful. Two jabs in the face. A right hook to the ribs.

The taller boy backed off towards the river. I saw it on his face. A silent plea. To Yassen. And to his credit, Yassen did step in. He grabbed the shorter boy by his shirt and pulled him back. I was sure he'd just saved a life. Yassen slapped the shorter boy across the face. Twice. The boy's shoulders slumped. It looked like everything would be fine. Yassen turned to move away.

As soon as he turned his back, disaster struck.

The shorter boy feinted at the taller boy. He flinched backwards. And almost in slow motion he fell over the side of the bank and into the water.

Yassen dived in. But I could tell it was too late. These were Russian street urchins. They couldn't swim. Yassen could manage a half decent dog paddle. The boy was dead before he hit the water.

I lifted him gently from his sinking body and pulled him onto my back. But I had to stick around. Because another death was approaching fast.

Half an hour later, Yassen emerged from the water, clothes soaking wet. Straight away he grabbed the short boy and started beating him. I mean it when I tell you it shocked me. It was savage. I've seen so many brutal things. But this. This was indescribable. Yassen pinned him to the floor and punched his head from side to side. The boy was bleeding and struggling and yelling. The other boys. They stood. And watched.

It was almost mesmerising. Yassen was screaming all sorts of unwritable things. And over and over he was repeating one word. The drowned boy's name. Just as I was ready to pull the short boy's soul from his body, Yassen stopped. The other boy lay whimpering by the river. Yassen had stopped beating the boy just as the life was ebbing from him.

I left quickly, pondering what I'd seen.

I can tell you now, the boy's name was Mikhail Ivanovich. He didn't die that day.

**The Death Of Mikhail**

_A cold November morning. The young man lies wrapped up in cardboard inside the door of the shop. The cold bites at his fingers. I ease him from his body. It takes two weeks for anyone to notice he's missing. Another week and they find he's dead._

You humans are capable of great and awful things.

The fourth was red.

This time I was late. Much too late to see the brunt of the action. By the time I'd picked up Travis, Caxero and three others I had to hurry. I reached the opera house in time to see Yassen. He was older again. And that little bit colder. Too cold to be natural. He had his gun on the man's neck. I had a suspicion I would be carrying the dark haired man on my shoulders before the night was over.

"You should have stayed at home".

Yassen ran.

But I had time to study him. He had been doing a lot of training. A lot of running. He was still pale. But his hair was shaved shorter now. And his eyes. They were so cold. Just like him.

He'd left his knife in the darker man, who collapsed to the ground. He was thrashing in pain, making it worse. There was blood everywhere. I almost took pity on him enough to take his soul there and then. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. The sea of blood pooling on the floor was too much.

I left then. I left. Like a coward. I failed to do my duty because I couldn't. Later I would learn that Yassen cried that night. Cried. The beast had a heart.

The fifth and last was white.

The world had shrugged on a jumper of snow. It blanketed the entire countryside. I made my way delicately across it, leaving no footprints. The sky smirked down at me. I smirked back. I was cold. So very cold.

I made my way gently through the trees to the small cabin. I let myself in. And the smirk slipped from my face. A man stood on a stool, a length of rope tied around his neck. Two bottles of Russian vodka lay scattered on the floor. A used syringe beside them.

**The Thing On The Stool:**

_A Yassen_

He could barely stand up. He was swaying. Tears streamed down his cheeks. They'd been beaten out of him by life.

I'll admit it. I felt let down. Disappointed. For Yassen to end his life. It shocked me really. He'd struggled through so much. And that was just in the five glimpses I'd seen. I felt bitter, truth be told.

Yassen jumped from the stool as if it was a cliff. He struggled on the end of the rope. I could have relieved him of his pain there and then. Scooped out his soul. But no. I let him squirm. I was mad. I wanted him to feel the choking anger I felt.

He slowly stopped struggling.

I reached out to take his soul. And I was fought back. The audacious bastard had nerve to attempt suicide then fight death back.

He swung wildly and pulled another knife from the waist band of his trousers. He slashed the rope and fell to the floor, gasping for air. He clawed at the rope biting into his neck and then fell into a deep unconsciousness. I nodded to myself.

That was when I noticed a small black leather book beside him. An envelope stuck out of the inside cover. On impulse, I picked it up. I tucked it in my pocket. And between my five sightings and the small black book, I managed to piece together exactly what happened.

I have followed Yassen Gregorovich's story from the highs to the lows. I have shared in his triumphs. I have wept with his words. And now, I give you his story. The Word Eater. Which is about, among other things:

-An up and coming assassin

-The silence monster

-A mute mobster

-Some irate policemen

-A teenage bullshit artist

-And quite a lot of Death

Here it is. One of a small number.

_The Word Eater._

Is you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story.

I'll paint you a picture.

* * *

**Next chapter coming sometime soon. More blatant thieving from The Book Thief to come.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series or The Book Thief. Really. Get over it.**

**Aw. Don't cry. I just don't want to get sued.**

* * *

The last time. The white snow. How did it get to that? Yassen swinging at the end of a rope. The procurement of a book. When did it reach that point? What could have happened to put so much strain on him? It started, years earlier, with the black night.

The time had come. For one.

**A Tragedy:**

_In the small gloom of the rented bedroom. The house was devoid of life, save for two rooms. A woman died on the floor._

Yassen Gregorovich and his sister were travelling to Estrov where a foster family had been found for him. Not a rich, upper class family. But people who could clothe and educate them, and perhaps give them more food. Their mother had been travelling with them. One last journey to deliver them into the hands of strangers. We now know she did not make it from Moscow to Estrov.

**How It Happened:**

_A shudder racked her frame. She opened her mouth then closed it again. Her eyes slowly frosted over. A stillness crept through her. _

She was asleep.

Yassen shook her. He tugged her sleeve. He begged. He pleaded. She did not budge. He stayed with her. He clung to her arms with the desperation of a drowning man. And finally, he broke down. With her dead arms around him. He wept. A sightless teddy bear watched him.

It took many minutes for his sister to return to the small room. When she did, she knew something was wrong. She knew from her eyes. They saw nothing. Or perhaps they saw everything.

The children waited. Her body grew cold. Her blood stilled in her veins. Tears slouched in gangs from Yassen's eyes. The candle blew out abruptly. So much horror. So much wonder. The world is clogged with secrets.

I want to tell you that Yassen Gregorovich accepted me. That I'd taken his mother. A soul like hers. It was robbery. So much to live with. So much to breathe for. Now, her whole death was stretched out in front of her son. Her nine year old son.

But Yassen was never going to be one of the accepting sort. He wept until his hunger denied him more tears to expel from his eyes. In the dark of that small room, he raged. His sister sobbed. His mother lay dead. And he threw a fit of anger at the unfairness of life. Of death.

But time does not slow forever. The world must turn. It took four hours for the landlord to appear in the doorway, complaining about the noise. He blinked twice. Drew another breath. And then he saw.

The boy and girl were removed from the room and taken to the living room of the rather large, ramshackle house. Cheap rooms, caked in filth, waited above them. Every single brick watched a future unfold.

Officials were called. Their social worker appeared. And a tall man with blond hair was summoned. It was decided upon. The children would wait for the burial. Then they would journey on, bound for Estrov.

Yes, I knew of Estrov. Even before the accident, it was one of the places I visited regularly. A place I walked too many times. I pulled charred souls from their bodies. Their fingernails bleeding. Moments before, they'd scratched the thick metal doors with desperation. At times, I wondered how something so horrific could be kept a secret. But you humans. You deal in secrets.

The burial took place the next day. A coffin was nailed together with planks taken from an old outhouse. The grave diggers whined about the icy conditions as they dug the grave. The social worker bowed her head. The sister held her hand, weeping loudly. Yassen kept his head down, the weight of grief on his shoulders. The priest said a few prayers. The world revolved.

And the tall blond man drove a car.

Afterwards, the social worker took both children by the hand and led them over to thank the priest. Yassen slipped away, with, dare I say it, the air of a master art thief. He wandered through the snow, back to the grave. A small, wooden cross marked the spot. The blond man materialized by his shoulder.

"_Hallo_" the man said. His voice was hushed, as though he was keeping a secret. It was the kind of voice that was more accustomed to barking orders than speaking to children. Although, the man made an effort. He made an effort.

Yes, the man addressed the boy in German. Yes, Yassen spoke German. His mother had been a German student of music studying in Moscow. His father was a bit of hot shot in the KGB. Love at first sight. I suppose. If you could call a physical attraction, unhappily undertaken marriage and a financial dependence love.

"_Hallo_" Yassen mumbled in reply.

"You're name is Yassen, isn't it?" the man asked politely.

"Yes" Yassen muttered.

"A good name. I will be driving you and your sister to Estrov. To your new home" the man volunteered, scuffing his feet in the snow.

"Yes" Yassen repeated.

There were so many things that the man wanted to say. So many sentences unspoken. Of lies and tears and laughs and blood. I want you to know that he regretted what he'd done. Perhaps you need a bit of information on the man.

**Some Facts About Gregor Mikhailovich:**

_He was six foot six with pale blue eyes that were dead on the inside._

_He was father to both Yassen and his sister._

_He had pushed and pushed Yassen's mother until, finally, she had left in the middle of the night with her son and her unborn daughter._

_He wanted more than anything to embrace his son and break down in tears. But anyone could have been watching._

The social worker approached the man tentatively, the girl clinging to her side. She made a remark about getting the children into the car. And Yassen bolted. The blond man watched, his head tilted to one side, as Yassen stumbled through the snow.

"Yassen!" the girl called out.

I like to imagine the scene on the days when I can't help but fantasize. The boy, in threadbare shorts. A dirty white shirt with no top buttons. Bare foot. Rasping across the snow with desperation. Made of shadows in the half light, with the glint of a monster. Then, the girl. In a scratchy grey pinafore. Calling out. Her voice stopping the monster in it's tracks. Can you see it too? I like to imagine the look on her face. The smell of grief, heavy in the air.

And then, her voice strolls from her mouth and stops him where he stands. He shivers once. She pulls once, twice from the social worker's grip to no avail. He trudges back alone.

The blond man wanted to comfort his son. Instead, he cuffed him around the ear and scolded him shortly. Then, both children were herded into the car.

The drive marked a few relatively large moments in Yassen's life.

1- He was leaving his mother for the last time.

2- It was his first journey in a car.

3- It was the first time he'd ever travelled anywhere without his mother.

It wasn't far from the small, derelict cemetery to Estrov. A large town, the Bio Chemical Research Centre loomed overhead at all times, casting a shadow on the homes below. The blond man steered his car expertly through the narrow, winding streets. Yassen made a small circle in the steamed up window to look out of.

Unhappy looking houses stared back at him.

Eventually, the car reached it's destination. It was a small, cramped looking street, with barely enough room for a car to squeeze through. Yassen breathed quietly as the car pulled to a stop outside a particularly dishevelled looking house.

The social worker got out of the car, the sister trailing dismally behind her. They disappeared through the open door. Silence crackled between the man and the boy, like the fuzzy white noise between radio stations. The man glanced around secretively and then, finally, opened his mouth to speak.

"My name is Gregor. I'm thirty one years old. I love your Mama very much. And today is my birthday" the man said, his voice choking slightly on his words. Yassen glanced up, nine year old brain whirring. Wheels turned and he stored away what the man had said, in case it would help him in the future.

"_Alles Gute zum Guburtstag_" Yassen said, smiling slightly. "All the best for your birthday". Yassen touched the front of his hair timidly and watched the man with scarcely veiled interest. The man shifted slightly under the gaze of the boy.

"Thank you, very much. If things do not work out. Here, I mean. I will come for you. If anything goes wrong. I will. I promise. I understand that it is your birthday in two weeks?" the man asked, smiling slightly.

"_Ja_" Yassen replied gloomily.

"How old?" the man asked. Gregor asked. Call him what you want. To me, he will always be 'the man'. Because that was how Yassen saw him. Yes, Yassen was aware in his later years that the man was his father. But you call your father that name because he doesn't leave. That is the one catch to fatherhood.

**A Definition Not Found In The Dictionary:**

_**Not-Leaving:** An act of trust and love, often deciphered by children._

And that is exactly what Gregor Mikhailovich did. He left his children. Perhaps their mother had been too poor to care for them adequately. But at the very least, she had been there.

Yassen Gregorovich never called the man 'father'. Or 'Gregor'. He called him the man. The man who'd made many mistakes. The man who feared for his children's safety above his own. The man who wanted, above all else, his wife to love him. For Gregor was all these things, unknown to Yassen. Or was he simply just a man?

"Ten" Yassen answered the question with a definate lack of enthusiasm.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled a small package from it. It was clumsily wrapped in plain brown parcel paper with 'Yassen' scrawled on the flat side of it. Very slowly, as though he was feeding a wild animal, he reached out with the package. He held it halfway between himself and Yassen, turning around in his seat to offer it.

Cautiously, Yassen reached forward, his fingers sliding through the air carefully. He gripped the corner of the package loosely. A minute passed before the man let go and turned back around. Slowly, Yassen pulled the package to his chest and set it down on the back seat.

"_Danke-_"

"Never thank me. Never. Don't you dare. It should be me, thanking you" the man said in a low tone, his voice dark and miserable.

Yassen let the words hang in the air of the car. He wasn't sure how to meet them. So instead, he turned to gaze out the small circle.

After a few more minutes, a very tall man came out. Pavel Demichev, Yassen's foster father. On one side of him stood the social worker, two heads below him. On the other side was the rather squat form of Olga Demichev. She had a distinctly irritated expression on her face, as though she had just sneezed up two underfed children.

Yassen's sister clung tearfully to Olga's small, tough fist. Pavel opened the car door and gestured once with his hand. Then he spoke. "Come on. Inside". Yassen would not budge. He sat still on the back seat, staring down at the floor. The man folded his arms across his chest. The social worker frowned. And Pavel Demichev? Did he violently force Yassen from the car? Did he ignore the small boy's stubborn jaw and order him out? No.

After twenty seconds he fixed the boy with an equally stubborn look.

"You like reading?" he asked, twisting his head so he could fix his left eye on the boy. Yassen shifted slightly in his seat and shook his head.

"Can't" he mumbled.

Pavel gave the boy a once over look and blinked. He scratched the back of his head. Then he gave a slight sniff. Nothing unfriendly. Just a sniff. He offered the boy a rough, callused hand. Yassen looked at the fingers. Many thoughts rushed through his mind.

Slowly, he reached out and gripped the offered fingers. With a gentle tug, Pavel lifted him out of the car and set him on his feet with a half friendly crease of the mouth. Then, without uttering a word, he led the boy firmly inside, the parcel and his small, battered suitcase lay forgotten on the back seat.

The house was by no means large. It contained a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room and two bedrooms upstairs. One was to be shared by Yassen and his sister. The other was shared by Pavel and Olga. And nestled at the front of the house with a window over looking the street, there lay a strange little room. It held an ancient desk and was coated by walls of shelves which creaked under the weight of books.

Large dusty tomes, slim manuals, typed out reports and books on foreign languages. The room had a strange chill to it. Yassen simply stared, taking everything in. It was impossible not to be amazed. He'd seen two books in his life. A small, battered bible and a guide to mining. And here lay dozens, hundreds of them. THe shelves whined in protest and Pavel blinked at the boy's astonished expression.

"You like writing?" Pavel asked, closing the door softly. Yassen wandered over to the window, scuffing his feet on the bare floor boards. He watched, with a detached interest as Olga grabbed his possessions from the back of the car and tucked them under one arm, closing the door with her considerably large girth. The man looked up once and saluted Yassen with a wry smile. Yassen nodded slowly. The the car started and the man and the social worker left the Gregorovichs to their fate.

"No. Can't" Yassen muttered, watching Olga pull his sister inside.

Pavel strolled over easily to the window and stared un-surely down at the boy.

"Yes. Well, you will learn at school. And until you do, this room is strictly out of bounds. When you do become literate", this was said in a faintly disapproving tone, "You will come in here everyday after school and spend two hours helping me with my work. Is the understood?"

Yassen took once last glance out at the unhappy street and then turned to face Pavel. He nodded meekly.

Yes, you read correctly. Meek. The one word that I never thought I would use to describe anything Yassen did. Remember. He was a small boy who wanted to please his new foster father.

Perhaps it was the obedience. Perhaps he was feeling indulgent. Or perhaps he just wasn't as hard as he liked to think. But that was when Pavel Demichev's eyes softened slightly. He plucked a random book from one of the many shelves and bent down, cradling the small form of the boy with one arm. Then, almost thoughtfully, he smiled. His face softened slightly.

He offered the book carefully and Yassen took it in his slightly grubby palms, almost guiltily.

"Good boy. You will be reading in no time. Won't you? And you will see your Mama and Papa again" Pavel said.

**An Important Statement:**

_Pavel Demichev did not deserve to die the way he did._

Yassen studied the cover of the book blankly. Tattered silver words gazed up at him curiously. The sightless teddy bear remained downstairs, sitting on the kitchen counter. The book was promptly stuffed up Yassen's threadbare coat.

"Hey, грязная свинья! Get down here now you, грязная свинья!" Olga's voice resonated throughout the house.

Yassen looked questioningly at Pavel, his grasp of Russian not extending to slander. Pavel looked down at the boy and a smile widened his lips. He chuckled a short, three syllable laugh. He rose back to his full height and winked at the boy.

"She's calling **you** a грязная свинья. You know..." he clicked his fingers, thinking of the German phrase, "_Saukerl_? A filthy pig, Yassen".

The boy's mouth widened into an o. He glanced in horror at his foster father. Pavel chuckled again, the same three syllables.

"Don't be so surprised. Olga, she likes pigs" he said, leading the boy out of the library.

Yassen touched his chest, almost reverently, feeling the cover of the book through his coat and shirt. He tapped it once. It felt reassuring. If Yassen had been able to read, he would have realised the the book was called:

**A Guidebook To Chemical Waste Disposal:**

_A twelve step guide to Safely Disposing of Waste._

_Published by the Estrov Board of Safety._

And so began an endless hunger for words. And an illustrious career.

* * *

**There you go. Now, is anyone actually reading this? It's kind of lonely, sending things off into cyberspace without knowing if there's any real point. Also, if anyone knows a good beta who has no problem accepting someone who could not spell their way out of a paper bag, please, drop me a line. My spell checker is exhausted.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Don't own Alex Rider or The Book Thief. Apparently Santa's sleigh souldn't fit the book rights, just like the pony I wanted last year. GAH! The stress is unbelievable.**

**I want to dedicate this chapter to my marvellous betas, daily ruse and CunningMascara. Where would I be without you? Probably still bashing my computer in a fruitless effort to get my bloody Spell Check working again. Seriously though, you're both amazing.**

**READ ON!**

* * *

Yes, an illustrious career. I hasten to add, however, that there was a considerable hiatus between the acquiring of the first book and the second. But the hunger had awoken, and it was definitely there. Yassen Gregorovich was very proud of his literacy on the streets of Moscow. He was very proud of himself. Because somewhere along the track, the lines of text in his books separated.

They began to form words. Shapes. Colours. Stories. Adventures. Yassen would tell you that he saved himself on the streets. But in reality, it was Pavel Demichev who gave him the tools to survive.

But, pardon me, I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we read further into that particular topic, let me first give you a tour of Yassen Gregorovich's beginnings in Estrov, and the art of saukerling.

Yassen's first nine years of life had been rather abnormal. He'd known the cramped sensation of a boarding house packed full of people. He learned not to ask questions. Not to ask people for food. Not to play chasing in the street. And, most importantly, not to mention his father to anyone but his sister, and even then in whispers.

When he arrived in Estrov, questions clouded Yassen Gregorovich's brain. He knew, somewhere at the very back of his mind, that he was being saved. But why did that mean being abandoned? Why did his mother die? What killed her?

The simple fact of the matter was this: She no longer had the will to live. She died because her love for her children was not great enough to convince her to live. She felt she had nothing that was worth clinging on for. And, secretly, I agree. Twice in her life she had tried to take her own soul to me. Didn't she see I was busy already?

But this is Yassen's story. Not hers. So onward we must move.

The Demichevs lived in one of the small block houses on a street called Moscow Street. A few rooms, a kitchen, a library and an indoor toilet, which Olga was very proud of. The roof was flat and there was a shallow basement where Pavel kept research papers and print-outs from his office.

In the beginning, it was the profanity that distracted Yassen from his situation.

Yassen and Yeva Gregorovich had lived for half their very short lives in a townhouse with three storeys. They'd been raised with the impeccable manners of well brought up children. Prior to their stay in Estrov, they had never heard any swear words, except for when their mother ran out of food, with brought on a 'Scheisse!'.

Every second word was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arshloch. For people who aren't familiar with these words, I should explain. Sau, of course, refers to pigs. In the case of Saumensch, it serves to castigate, berate or plain humiliate a female. Saukerl (pronounced 'saukrail') is for a male. Arschloch can be translated directly into arseholes. The word, however, does not differentiate between genders, which allowed Olga to insult both Gregorovichs with one word instead of two.

"Saukerl! Why won't you have a bath like your sister!?" Olga yelled at Yassen the first night, when he refused to have a bath. Yassen kept his gaze on the floor.

"Olga, leave him to me. You take Yeva up to bed" Pavel Demichev's voice slipped through Olga's hateful words, as though he himself was sliding through a crowd. Olga's face contorted in anger. Her mouth opened and closed twice, like a fish out of water.

"You saukerl! You arshloch! You think I'd let you take him and spoil him rotten!?" Olga yelled, shaking her fist angrily at her husband. Pavel frowned and folded his arms across his chest, eying Yassen once with a studious look. He was weighing whether it was worth sticking up for the boy against Olga. I don't think there was any doubt in his mind about what to do.

"Take Yeva to bed. I will look after the boy" Pavel said, fixing Yassen with another long look.

Olga huffed, gripped Yeva's hand in a vice lock hold and dragged her from the bathroom, muttering to herself about 'That saukerl'. Pavel closed the door after them and locked it slowly before turning back to face Yassen.

In credit to him, Yassen didn't flinch away, even though he thought he knew what was to come. Yassen had known the sting of a belt. His mother may have been ill and frail. Starving. BUt she always had a reserve to beat manners into her children. You think this is cruel? Life is cruel. And the blows Yassen's mother inflicted on him never stung as much as the blows life beat into him. Life punished Yassen Gregorovich. Death freed him.

He stood stock still, feet rooted to the ground, staring up at his foster father. Pavel winked down at the boy slowly and pulled a towel from the hot press that groaned in the corner.

"Now. About this bath. You take one every week. If you want, Olga can bathe you. But I warn you, she will scrub until you are red raw. Or you can be a grown up and bathe yourself. Richtig?" Pavel offered the words and the towel to Yassen.

Yassen took the towel carefully and flung into the bath full of cooling water. Pavel frowned, a wrinkle appearing between his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides and fished the towel from the bath, hanging it over the side after a moment of indecision.

"That was not a good thing to do. Now I must punish you for that. Wait here" Pavel ordered, disappearing from the room. Yassen stared at the tiles on the floor, his mouth pulled into a stubborn little mould. He scuffed circles on the rotting tiles, his toes drawing a quiet noise from the floor. Pavel's footsteps echoed throughout the house as he reappeared in the door of the bathroom, two heavy tomes under his arms.

Yassen flinched at the sight of the large, weighty books. He took a hesitant half step backwards. He seemed to be debating fight or flight. Pavel watched the boy curiously, observing the unspoken terror lurking in Yassen's eyes.

Finally Yassen held out both hands in front of him, closing his eyes, waiting for the heavy blow to bite into his palms. Pavel Demichev watched uncomprehendingly as the boy clenched his eyes shut, his lips pursed determinedly. Finally, recognition sparked in his pupils and he shook his head silently.

"I am not going to hit you, Yassen. Not for refusing to take a bath. And I hope that nothing you do ever requires me to hit you. Spread your arms out. Further. Stretch them as far as they will go. What are you, a mouse? Further. Good." Pavel said, watching as Yassen strained to widen his arm span.

Gently, Pavel balanced one book on one palm, and the second book on Yassen's other palm. The boy's arms wobbled once. Pavel watched carefully as Yassen balanced both books as steadily as possible.

"My Papa, he used to do this to me. If I misbehaved, he would place The Bible on my right hand and The Complete Works of Shakespeare on the other. I stood like that a minute for every year I'd lived. Nine minutes for you Yassen. But the strangest thing was that after my Papa removed the weight, my arms would not stay down. My heart would be in my boots but my arms would rise of their own accord. Let this be a lesson to you. Punishment can set you free" Pavel said.

**Some Facts About Pavel Demichev:**

_He was over six feet tall with sky grey hair and cloudy blue eyes._

_His nose was rather large and hooked, giving him a sharp appearance. His cheekbones were high and a very dominant feature of his face._

_He had cheated me in both the first World War and the second. I had long been due my pound of flesh._

_There are perhaps four men like him in the world at anytime. You may have seen one._

_He had only once raised his hand to a child of his and had regretted it ever since._

Pavel Demichev was a relic of times long past. A gentleman, by all accounts. Fiercely proud of his library. Polite. Amiable. But fierce when defending that which he loved. He was one of the good people in Estrov. I did not carry his soul away. He walked beside me.

Yassen did his nine minutes. His arms did indeed refuse to stay at his sides. Man and boy stood in the bathroom and spoke monosyllabically until the water had turned icy cold. It was the kind of conversation that wielded both words and silence with many minutes lapsing between each remark.

Pavel took both books back to his office and left them on his desk before leading Yassen Gregorovich downstairs. He toasted two thin slices of bread, giving one and a half of them to Yassen. Olga appeared halfway through the somber little meal and scowled at the boy.

"He didn't have a bath!" she barked at her husband.

"I know" Pavel retorted, simply chewing his bread thoughtfully. Yassen kept his gaze on his lap and swallowed the dry bread noisily, forcing it down his throat. This was before the days of toasters and the bread was plain, with no butter. Whatever butter was taken into the house was usually saved up until there was enough to be more than just scrapings.

"And?" Olga asked, bustling about the kitchen.

"And what?" Pavel replied, winking at Yassen. The boy finished the last of his toast and Pavel got to his feet, dusting off his trousers. Olga frowned at her husband as Pavel held out a hand to the child in the kitchen with them.

"Come little one, it is time for bed" Pavel said. Yassen took the man's hand hesitantly and allowed himself to be led further up into the heart of the house. Pavel led him to a room. The chamber was occupied by two single beds and a rickety-looking desk. Yassen could see the outline of his sister in the occupied single bed even as Pavel led him over to the other one.

Yassen allowed Pavel to lift him into the bed but drew the line at being tucked in. The nine year old burrowed under the blanket himself, giving Pavel a look that promptly dismissed any notions of a bedtime story or hug. God forbid a kiss goodnight.

I like that. I like that a lot.

Pavel got the message and after a short goodnight and an awkward pause, the man drifted from the room. Yassen nestled between the blanket and the pillow. A slight stirring in the other bed made his ears prick up. His sister's solitary voice drifted across the room, the silent, shaded corners watching curiously.

"Yassen, you stink. Take a bath" she said, sobbing quietly.

"You take a bath" Yassen retorted snappily.

Yes, a pathetic comeback. I suppose nine year olds aren't conventionally known for snappy comebacks.

Yassen listened to his sister sob for a minute, refusing himself tears. He would not cry. Yeva was allowed cry, she was a girl. Yassen, a boy. He'd been instilled with the same amount of manly pride that every nine-year-old managed to posses. Somehow. He was to protect his sister, not weep with her.

"I miss Mama" Yeva added to the tears trooping down her cheeks in little gangs.

The words hung in the air of the small bedroom. Silence darted forward, swallowing them whole, blanketing the room in mute noise. The moonlight strolling through the window made Yeva's tears glint on her pillow. Yassen listened to her silent sniffles and whispered words of comfort in his brain. Sounds that made powerful words to make her happy. But they simply sat on his tongue, refusing to drip from his mouth.

Yeva's pillow was saturated with silence that night.

It would be unfair of me to lead you to believe that the Gregorovich's weren't happy in the Demichev household. Things were as close to happy as circumstances allowed.

Yassen did bathe eventually, after a fifteen minute threat filled rant at the hands of Olga. There I go again. Leading you to believe the Demichev's were cruel people. Olga Demichev is still a rather shadowed character of this story, isn't she?

**Some Facts About Olga Demichev:**

_She was just five feet tall and had an expression of perpetual fury on her face._

_She had raised five children of her own and straightened out a few foster children as well._

_She had a peculiar love/hate relationship with her husband and had never really forgiven him for the loss of their third child._

_She did love Yeva and Yassen Gregorovich._

_She just showed it in a strange way that involved flaying them with words._

The day after Yassen bathed he was allowed out into the street to play with the other children of the area.

What about Yeva? You ask yourself this. Yeva Gregorovich was a very ill child. She had been born two months premature and had nearly been killed by Scarlet Fever at the age of two. She was permanently exhausted and shockingly underweight. Because of this she lacked energy and was very fragile. She was sickly. And seeing as the children of the neighbourhood were notorious for rough-housing, Olga made the executive decision to contain Yeva for a few weeks.

Yassen ambled out into the street, looking smaller than usual in an outfit much too big. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets as he stood, uncomfortably alone while the other children of the street played a game of football.

It would be worthy of note that Yassen's new home was on Moscow Street. Ironic in a twisted way really. Yassen sought refuge in Moscow twice in his life. Once the street, then the city. I really am drifting, aren't I? Moscow Street was recognized as the poorest street in Estrov. Most of the residents were on food stamps and goods tokens.

Yassen was one of those children who wasn't shy. He just didn't really feel at ease with other children who he didn't know well. He wasn't the kind of boy who went over and introduced himself to other children. He sat on the steps of the Demichev's house and watched the other children charging around, kicking the ball up and down, the street the only football stadium they needed, imaginary crowds cheering them on.

Aloow me to give you a picture of Moscow Street football:

Feet scuff the road loudly, a rasp of contact.  
The rush of boyish breath working hard to fuel the efforts of the players.  
Shouted words. "Here! This way! Pass!"  
The vulgar bounce of ball on road.

One of the children playing football glanced up. It was boy. His name was Ludwig.

Slowly, Ludwig pulled away from the game and jogged over to where Yassen sat. When I say jogged, I mean a mixture of a fast walk and a loping stride. Ludwig was much taller than Yassen and was known on Moscow Street for his large ears and unerring clumsiness. He was also perhaps the worst footballer Moscow Street had ever seen.

"You just moved in with the Demichevs, huh?" Ludwig asked, hands on his hips. Yassen shifted on the steps, squirming. He blushed and nodded slowly, searching for words to put to the situation. Ludwig didn't seem to expect any. He simply plopped down beside Yassen on the steps and gestured vaguely at the game.

"You want to play? You can be on my team. We're four down. Need a miracle" Ludwig said pleasantly. Ludwig lived in an apartment with his mother and father and his younger sister eight doors down from the Demichevs and he had a part time job delivering newspapers. He was well accustomed to the wrath of Olga whenever the paper was late or the snow ruined the print.

Again Yassen nodded, lifting himself to his feet roughly. Even his stance was unsure. Unknown to him, Pavel Demichev watched from his office window, a distant smile on his face. Ludwig trotted back over to the game and grinned apologetically at Yassen. At the sight of the small, malnourished looking boy the game drew to a pause, the ball trapped under the elbow of one of the boys.

Yassen cocked his fists and remembered distantly his father telling him not to let himself be pushed around. The other boys drew reluctantly around Yassen, eying him up studiously. It wasn't quite clear who decided but somehow each boy reached the conclusion that Yassen was worthy of admittance to their game.

Being the new kid in town, he was of course lumped into goals, freeing Ludwig from his post. I like to puzzle over Ludwig sometimes. Perhaps Yassen's first friend. What on Earth possessed him to approach the lonely boy? Was he bored of the drubbing his team were taking? Or did he simply want to be that boy? Who knows. I don't think I ever will. That's the thing about humans. You overthrow my worst expectations.

It was going rather smoothly for a few minutes. Yassen made a save. Well, he poked the ball away from the goal with his toe. He was even starting to get used to the idea of playing in the street until the fateful moment when Viktor Abramovich was upended into the dirt by a Ludwig Engel foul of frustration.

Ludwig protested loudly of his innocence in the way that only young boys can.

"What!? What did I do!?" he called loudly, throwing his arms up in the perfect gesture of desperate innocence.

A penalty was awarded by everyone on Viktor's team and then it was time. Viktor Abramovich going head to head with the new kid on the street, Yassen Gregorovich. Almost immediately Yassen's team-mates rushed over and ordered him out of the goal. As you might have guessed, Yassen protested.

Viktor Abramovich was a star in the making. He hadn't missed a penalty in thirty shots even when he was shooting on someone made of stronger stuff than Ludwig Endel. No matter who was in goal, Viktor Abramovich always got his goal. It was a fact of life. Like morning dew or water being wet.

"Let him stay" Viktor insisted, his grin casting a shark-like appearance on his face. His eyes were lit with oppurtunity. He could smell his third goal of the day. He was ready to do victory lap of the street. After all, Yassen Gregorovich wasn't exactly intimidating, standing as he did. Shivering between two jumper goal posts, his clothes much too large for him.

The chatter and scuffing sounds of happy feet ceased. Time himself seemed to hold his breath while Viktor placed the ball on the spot designated as the penalty area. The girls who had been sitting on the stairs, chatting or playing hopscotch gathered around. Yassen watched his breath steam into the air. Another favourite picture of mine. This time I imagine the scene from Pavel Demichev's point of view. Watching from above with him as he protectively oversees Yassen's debut in Moscow Street football.

However, I always imagine Yeva in the background of the scene, one of the faceless children crowded to watch. Her huge eyes devouring the image of her brother. Yes, Yeva is there the way I see it in my mind's eye.

Viktor shuffled forward and fired the ball. Yassen dived and somehow managed to deflect the ball with an elbow. He picked himself up from the ground a minute later and listened to the war whoops of the other children. Deep down he cheered with them. But all that came out was a chuckle and a wide smile. Not bad for a future killer.

Viktor Abramovich winked at Yassen before hurling mud at him. Yassen blinked as chortles rang in his ears. He blushed and wiped furiously at his face, the mud cold and stinging madly.

"Nice save," Viktor called before racing off in pursuit of the ball.

Yassen stalked from the road to the steps of the Demichev house, wiping his face on his sleeve disdainfully. His hands curled back into fists and he clenched his teeth.

"Saukerl". Even at that age, Yassen was a remarkably fast learner.

**Some Facts About Viktor Abramovich:**

_He was three months older than Yassen Gregorovich and had bony knees, very white teeth, dark blue eyes and hair the colour of straw or hay._

_The third of eight children he was perpetually hungry and sat in a slouched way to stop his stomach from moaning loudly._

_On Moscow Street he was greatly respected, considered insane and feared._

_The first trait came from his sporting and academic ability._

_The second trait from an incident widely known but rarely discussed that involved two kidnapped chickens, a sheet, copious amounts of time, patience and rope, a dog and resulted in a broken leg for Viktor. People referred to it as 'The Incident'._

_The third came from the hiding he gave a boy called Pietor because Viktor didn't want Pietor to speak with his sister._

I think he was always destined to be Yassen's partner in crime in Estrov. A mudball is as close as nine year olds get to affection. The mud cemented the friendship. No-one was sure when it happened except for Viktor but at some stage the two became inseparable, rarely seen without the other.

Viktor Abramovich liked Yassen a lot (hence the mudball). He had made up his mind about Yassen Gregorovich the instant the boy had stepped out of the Demichev's house. In fact, if Ludwig hadn't approached Yassen, Viktor would have. He'd been on the verge of drawing the boy into the game when Ludwig leaped in. Yes, Viktor Demichev was persistent. He decided after the penalty that he and Yassen would become friends.

But he insisted on maintaining his pride. He wasn't a girl. He wouldn't just walk over and say 'Let's be friends'. No. He would be subtle. Sly. It was destiny. Who was he to fight it?

Yassen opened the door of the Demichev's house and stormed in. He stomped up to the small attic like bedroom and threw himself down on his bed with a snort of derision. Five minutes later Pavel Demichev contemplated knocking but dismissed the idea.

* * *

Yeva Gregorovich listened to the sound of children playing outside and hummed a little song to herself. She sat on the floor of the kitchen while Olga peeled the potatoes that were to become dinner.

She was sure she would like living on Moscow Street.

* * *

Four years later Yassen sits on the same steps that he first sat on. The view is much the same. Huddled, miserable houses clinging together for warmth. Viktor Abramovich sits at his side, the pair bathing in the silence that only teenage boys can be comfortable with.

"You kissed my sister, didn't you?" Viktor says, the words lounging out of his mouth.

Yassen glances at his best friend calmly, a quiet sparkle just visible in his gaze. Four years of happy living have made him slightly more normal.

Both boys are rather oddly built. Stretched, with Viktor the taller by half a head. Hungry-looking. Though Yassen slightly less so. The kind of boys who are quite good looking but still have to grow into their faces.

"And?" Yassen replies, knowing his crime perfectly.

"You know what I did to Pietor years ago for even looking like he wanted to kiss Katya?" Viktor says, letting the question hang in the air above their heads. Yassen knows the story much too well to feign innocence.

"I know. What, you're going to try and give me a hiding?" Yassen asks, rumpling his hair.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't fancy my chances as much as I did against Pietor. She likes you a lot." Viktor says, crossing his legs and adopting a seat like a Native American.

"Yes. We went ice-skating last week. I would have taken her down to the river today if Sister Egorov hadn't kept me" Yassen responds.

"I'm glad it's you" Viktor says.

The words wait there and dissolve into the silence, warming the boys. The sun goes down, snow falls and they sit for another half hour on the cold steps.

The lighter quality in Yassen's eyes would soon fade from a sparkle to terror, grief and finally ice. Perhaps I am ruining the story for you. But I want to soften the blow when it comes. So here, I have the pillow, the cushion to protect you.

They all die.

Viktor, Katya, Olga, Pavel, Yeva. Gone. I picked them up and took them with me.

They warmed my skin as I watched the train speed away to Moscow, an unexpected passenger part of the cargo.

And I couldn't help but smile a little.

* * *

**What's that word again? Begins with 'R' ends with 'W'? No, it's not 'Renew'. Please Review. Look. You've reduced me to begging. Pretty please? With a cherry and sugar on top?**


End file.
